


Your Billie Will Explode if You Mix Them with Soda (12x09)

by j0uii



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12x09 Coda, Boys Kissing, Episode Related, Episode: s12e09 First Blood, M/M, Underage (implied), Wincest - Freeform, Winchester Heaven, perspective shift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-21 03:01:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9528911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/j0uii/pseuds/j0uii
Summary: A short coda to "First Blood": what happened when they died.





	

 

The first thing Billie says to him is ‘ _Pop Rocks’_.

His eyes sting immediately, because it’s their code (the one they settled on Saturday, March 21st 1998) for ‘ _do it, it will suck, but I got your back, remember that day, we go out in flames, I love you_ ’. It’s their own private apocalypse prophecy sign-in sheet, with empty lines for numbers one and two only, because it applies to two names, and always just the two names. It’s almost like they had always known they will need their own panic-room button (even if the chance they would actually have a room to panic in was slim to none, but yeah- it’s totally besides the point now).

And that is the only thing she tells him, because Sam Winchester does not ask questions, just agrees. ‘Yes, do it.’

*

He feels it, deep inside his being – a profound cut as if a scalpel sliced open his heartbeat – when Dean dies.

*

He isn’t sure why he would ever be expecting it to be easier – because why, seventeenth time’s the charm? – but no, it doesn’t, it isn’t, and it wouldn’t, and the only thing that is easier is the fact he lets go without fear.

*

For two flickers of what he is sure is a stack of eternities, Sam Winchester feels alone. It’s hard to determine where he is. It’s sunny, and he must be hallucinating ‘cause the windows are wide opened, and milky gentle brightness is bursting into the room, and it’s so quiet, and he is on some kind of couch, _not just any couch_ his mind supplies, and then he isn’t alone.

He hears two beer bottle caps being popped off.  

*

_“You will let us into our heaven while we’re dead.”_

_“You must be joking.”_

_“Non-negotiable.”_

_“I hope you two decide it’s gonna be you, Dean.”_

_“Yeah, I get that.”_

*

They don’t even fight about it. They hold their beers in silence, Sam still sitting on the couch, Dean hovering above him for a few moments. Then he moves, slotting himself behind Sam, the couch must have expanded a yard to fit them both, beer left untouched on the ground to the side, arms around Sammy, tight, tighter--; and it’s not like he never held him before, even Dean Winchester allowed himself an acceptable amount of chick flick moments, especially when he could easily convince himself it was only to make Sam happy, while it was Dean purring (as in, totally manly purring), as his hands softened along his brothers naked skin.

Sam of course turns to face him, mouth invisible-tight at first and then opening up to speak, but Dean shakes his head ‘no’ silently a couple of times, and that is all it takes, and Sam’s mouth closes.

Dean kisses him, because he knows those eyes burst in wet redness, blinking and tightening in turn. Dean kisses him, because he does not want to (more likely, he can’t bear to) see tears streaming down Sammy’s cheeks.

They don’t speak. At least _that_ they had learned, that there is no point in asking the other to try and find a normal life, they both know there is no normal, never was, never can be, never could have been. Dean just hopes Cas will stick around to prevent Sammy from doing something stupid, or at least something extremely stupid, and that mom will come back to take care of him, and help him hunt, and love him, and prevent him from doing something gigantically colossally stupid, and that Sammy’s days will sometimes allow him to see this kind of sunshine and bear to remember. Alive, alive, alive.

Besides, Dean Winchester knows he took the better part of the deal, because _nothing_ is grades better than _without_.

Thoughts vanish from his mind, because Sammy is melting inside his embrace, and it feels like they are kids again, not quite innocent and carefree, but as close to the idea of innocent and carefree as they could ever manage, and hiccupy breaths Sammy takes that are spilling over his neck in waves make Dean forget a tiny fraction more, lets them cleanse him of memories, of that burning mesh of a monster inside him, frankenstined out of equal parts guilt, relentlessness, hunger and hurt.

Everything fades away but Sam.

He has to admit, it would have been freaking unbelievably awe-strucking-awesome if they actually got the chance to spend eternity here. Like this.

Sam’s heaviness is infusing into him, weight, and limbs, and skin, and mouth on Dean’s neck, and watery red eyes, and distraught breathing Sammy tries so hard to hide. Dean is trying to keep his own breaths steady, but his throat is closing up, and his chest won’t listen to him (goddammit!), and all he can do is keep Sammy as tight, as close with him (inside him) as possible, so they at least remain hooked into the illusion of sanity, and, you know, consciousness.

Suddenly, Sammy has calmed down, and it should be stranger to Dean (by now, at least) that that’s all it takes for him to feel happiness bursting at the seams of his ragged, frayed, barely stitched up being.

His body is dragged into a fully lying position, with Sam covering him, his chin gently moved upwards, and soft kisses follow, gentle and careful and mindful at first, then (after several mental back-and-forths of _bitch-jerk_ ) they are steadily sloppier, demanding, consuming. (Sammy at ten, at twelve years old, at sixteen, skipping the whole eighteen plus four period, at twenty six, at thirty, always the same demanding, consuming kisses, always the same happiness it yields in Dean, even after every-fucking-thing that happened, even then for all those first times, even now when it is the last time). Yeah, it would have been awe-strucking-awesome.

It’s kinda funny that their heaven is just a room with one breath.

And they thought they would never have a panic-room of their own.

*

_It was the silence, and the prospect of words worse than silence, that made him call her name. And he needed it. Their first, and probably only fucking proper goodbye they will have._

*

When life assaults him once again, and he feels the metal cold needling into his back, Dean Winchester blinks his mind into a single track of determination, one road alight in the fog that tries to consume it.

And he tries damn hard, not just because that’s the only way he knows how to, tries to stay on that road.

And he tries to let the relief exploding in him fill him up to the brim when he hears commotion on the table behind him, Sammy existing again; alive, alive, alive.

And he tries not to think about two untouched bottles of cold beer left besides a couch, somewhere.

*

_(Cas, you crazy son of a bitch!)_


End file.
